


La Fin

by mumsasters



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, alternate endings, pff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-15 05:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8043862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumsasters/pseuds/mumsasters
Summary: In which I amend the ending to each episode in the spirit of the entirely glorious PFF.





	1. Cocaine Blues

**Author's Note:**

> These will start tame, because PFF in Episode 1 just ruins it, but they will get better. Also, I think they will be meant to all stand on their own, giving me the ability to write their “first time” over and over. Oh yes.
> 
> Was going to wait for Phracking Friday to post, but I just can't wait that long. It's Friday in Australia right now, and that's what counts, right?

 

“One less bordello?”

Jack managed to keep the amusement out of his face altogether.  “This is not a game, Miss Fisher.”

“Of course not.  Now,” Phryne said with an absolutely cheeky grin.  “Raise a glass to my new business.”

“What kind of business?” Jack asked.  He suddenly thought that maybe she would be too occupied in the future to snoop around in his cases.  This was followed by a sharp and surprising feeling of disappointment.  He raised the champagne to his lips.  He hardly ever permitted junior Constables to drink on the job - or to see him drinking on the job, even more importantly - but Constable Collins was a good kid.  He wouldn’t abuse the privilege.  There was also something about the presence of this bright and bubbling woman that made him care just a little bit less about the proprieties of his position.  As the liquid slid down his throat, he thought Miss Fisher was very much like champagne itself:  sparkling, sweet but simultaneously dry, decadent … sensual …

“To my oldest friend's newest enterprise, the Honourable Miss Fisher, lady detective,” Dr. MacMillian announced.

Jack choked, champagne threatening to come out of his nose.  He exchanged glances with Collins, trying to look as utterly annoyed as possible.  If he was honest, he was relieved that he may cross paths again with her in the future.

“I do like the sound of that,” she said, white teeth on display.

Jack nodded for Collins to join them at the table, and Jack sat down as well.  Afterall, Collins was sweet on Miss Williams, that was clear.  What’s more, Jack felt a twinge of regret for keeping Collins on the job so many late nights and weekends.  If he could help him along on the path to getting a girl, he’d likely stay a much happier employee.  As the group chattered, Jack had a memory of pursuing his own sweetheart when he was a much younger policeman.  Somehow, though, today, for the first time since Rosie moved out, the thought of their shambled marriage was more dull, less painful.  He wondered when that had changed.

After a second drink (he hoped Collins would keep this to himself and not tell the other lads at the station), Mac announced that she needed to get to the hospital for an evening shift.  Cec and Bert left to pick up a few fares at the close of business.  

After Cec and Bert left, Jack thought it would be appropriate for them to take their leave, but as he opened his mouth to speak, he overheard Miss Williams whisper to Miss Fisher:  “Miss, I’d like to visit my mother this evening if that’s acceptable to you.”

“Of course!” Miss Fisher said in a normal speaking tone.  “Dot, you don’t need to ask me to visit your mother!  I just wish you would have spoken up earlier; Cec and Bert could have driven you.”

“Oh it’s quite alright…” Miss Williams started.

“Collins,” Jack jumped in, not knowing what was coming over him, “perhaps you could escort Miss Williams.  Your shift is over, afterall.”

Hugh looked like he’d swallowed the car whole, “Of course, sir, yes, sir, Miss, of course, if you’d like, I mean.”  He gushed nonsensically.

Miss Williams flushed crimson.

“Yes, Constable, that would be lovely.”

It was Hugh’s turn to blush.  They stood up most awkwardly, but Hugh eventually found his footing and offered her his arm.

Jack watched them go, a bit wistfully.

“Young love,” said Miss Fisher.  “Isn’t it glorious?”  She poured another glass for them both.  ( _ A third!?  You shouldn’t drink this. _ )

He met her eyes to see if she was teasing him, but she seemed completely sincere.

“Yes,” he said, “it is.”

“There’s nothing quite like it, is there?” she asked.

He thought about this for a second.

“I’m not sure,” he mulled.  She looked surprised; she’d expected agreement and platitudes and shallow pleasantries.  “I can’t say I enjoyed all the panic and self-doubt that came with the territory.”

“Yes,” she said, her brows knitting ever so slightly.  “I remember.”

She took a sip of champagne, which automatically triggered his own sip.  As they both drank, she allowed her unoccupied hand to lightly, softly brush his on top of the table.  It was a momentary feeling of warm smooth skin on his own calloused hand, and he felt a spark rush from the tip of his finger to the top of his spine, and down clear to his toes and another noteworthy appendage.  He then couldn’t stop the remembered vision of her sitting on the floor beneath him, naked except for a towel, panting, cheeks and chest flushed, with the delicious sound of “Inspector” rolling out of her rosy lips.

He drained the champagne and stood to go.  “I should really be getting home.”

“Of course, Inspector,” she stood as well.  “I do hope I’ll be seeing more of you as I work on my cases.”  She was standing too close, perhaps.  Jack didn’t trust himself on account of the alcohol.  If he backed up, it might be rude, but her face was so incredibly close to his.  He should act annoyed; he can’t let on that he likes her interruptions into his incredibly boring routine.  He looked at her for a long moment, while she (just barely) leaned forward into him even more.

“Yes,” he said, “as do I.”  He reached for her hand and raised it to his mouth, skimming her knuckles ever so slightly with his lips as he held her gaze.  Apparently, three glasses of champagne turned him into a different person… or perhaps it was something other than the champagne.

_ Run! _

He turned on his heel and walked out of the Windsor, unable to resist the temptation to glance back at her just before he cross the threshold.  She was still standing in the same spot, watching him leave.  When their eyes met, he knew he was putty in her hands.   _ How utterly predictable of me,  _ he thought.   _ She probably thinks she can chew me up like all the other men she meets.  Next time I see her there will be no drinking, I need to keep my wits about myself with this one. _

_ Next time…  _ he focused on that thought and smiled.


	2. Murder on the Ballarat Train

She remembered the rain in Melbourne, remembered it from childhood.  Phryne sat in her window seat, staring out at the heavy, healing rain.  Rain that would bring spring.  Rain that would nourish flowers in her new garden.  She thought back to other Melbourne rains, the ones that would break the oppressive summer heat, the ones that she and Janey used to run outside to play in.  She smiled-her mother hated when they got soaking wet.  Rain in London was constant: a gray, depressing drizzle that smelled like smoke, seemed to linger in her hair and clothes at all times of the day, and made her question whether life could ever be joyful again.  Rain in France …, well, French rain only reminded Phryne of the smell of mud everywhere, the sharp odor of blood, the stink of infection.  But rain in Melbourne felt wholesome and right:  life-giving.

So why didn’t she feel wholesome?  There was something about this dramatic move across the world that seemed contrived.  What was she doing here, on her own, in this great big lovely house?  She felt rudderless, adrift.  Maybe it was stupid and impetuous to come all the way here just to serve her cold dish of revenge on Murdoch Foyle.  Mac was wonderful, but could Phryne really build an entire life here around her lesbian doctor friend and her stuffy old Aunt Prudence?  

Phryne’s lip curled when she thought of what her mother would say to that.  Her mother had made her feelings known perfectly as Phryne was setting out for Australia:  Phryne should stop playing at life and get married.  The thought of giving up her freedom to a man (especially the ones presented to her by her mother) made her want to be physically ill.  

This wouldn’t be so bad and lonely if only Janey were here.  Janey.  If Janey were alive, they might live together here.  Of course, Janey would have the same memories of their father and also swear to never tie herself down.  She was always so free, and trusting.  She’d always play whatever game Phryne suggested, in the way that little sisters have.  She would have thought that a worldly, fashionable spinster residence in Melbourne would be just the ticket.  Surely, Janey would have been her lifelong friend and companion.

Companion.  There was a word she didn’t consider often before arriving in Melbourne.  Life in London was brimming with people to get away from.  She needed to face facts:  she was lonely here.  So far, she’d met some handsome men in Sasha de Lisse and Lindsay Thompson, but Sasha was not entirely acceptable for conversation.  And Lindsay, well, she couldn’t spend too much time with someone who was a greater flirt than she was.  Plus his youth, and his gambling...  it was tiresome.  What she really wanted was someone to talk to... someone who could be here right now, with her, in her parlour during a rainstorm, talking, bantering, sitting quietly.

“ Inspector Robinson is here, Miss Fisher.”  Mr. Butler’s voice broke into her thoughts like a crash.

_ Inspector Robinson.   _ Come to think of it, what  _ was  _ his situation.  He seemed to work a lot of late nights, and he certainly didn’t wear a wedding ring.  She’d noticed that straight off.  He wasn’t unpleasant to look at by any means.  He had to be around 40, maybe 45.  He didn’t have the swagger of a 40-year-old bachelor playboy, but he also had far too much confidence to be a 40-year-old virgin.  He must have been married at some point… maybe widowed?  That was an interesting thought…

But no, he would be far more useful as a police contact.  She really needed to win him over as a friend, but it wouldn’t hurt to have him wrapped around her finger a bit.  She could continue to lay on the charm, but nothing more.  She needed to be strategic about this.

“Inspector! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She thought he looked uncomfortable, like he shouldn’t be here.  She was slightly worried he’d come to chastise her again for interfering… how dull that would be.

“I've had a word to welfare. They've agreed to let you foster Jane.”

“Good.”  This was a surprising development, she thought there would be far more paperwork and effort involved.  She paused, assessing his hesitation.  “But you're not convinced.”

“You do know it's not easy, looking after a kid who's been through the wringer.”

“Nothing that matters is easy.”

“Hm.”  He looked down, unsure of where to put his hands, where to look.  He’d always seemed more sure-footed than this when he was on his turf… on a case… or in his office.  She thought his hesitation was almost… cute.

She took pity on him and ended the pause with some chatter.  “And it could be far worse. She could be a babe in arms.”  He again paused, not saying anything in return, eyes darting around the room.  Quiet Jack was interesting to her, although a recent memory suddenly came flashing through of his chiseled face close to hers, sitting on the floor of the train car, knees touching, his anger boiling over, his brow creased, his not-unpleasant breath hot on her face, his eyes also hot on first her eyes, and then (for a second, if she wasn’t mistaken) her lips.  She recalled how hard it was to tear her face away when Hugh came to interrupt them.  Yes, she thought with a little shiver, she prefered an irritated Jack.

“Can I offer you a drink?”  She saw a million thoughts tumbling around in his head, with his awkward glance at his watch and the door, even though she could have sworn he was waiting for the invitation.  

_ Just what color are those eyes?  I thought I remembered them being blue, but maybe they’re actually light brown... _

“Uhh... Perhaps just the one.”  

_ I need to do some detective work of my own on you, Inspector. _

He clasped his hands awkwardly as he sat gingerly down in front of her.

“What about babes of your own?” she asked innocently.

“Uh, no.” He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable.  “No, we were never blessed.”

_ We, so maybe he’s married.  Maybe he’s one of those manly men who don’t like to wear any jewelry, including a ring.  But he used the past tense… still points to widowed.  Very intriguing. _

“To all the kids who've been through the wringer, then, Inspector Robinson.”

He took a sip of her expensive whisky and his eyes widened in surprise at the strength.  She couldn’t help thinking it was rather adorable.

“You might as well call me Jack. Everyone else does.”

_ Police connection confirmed, and in the bag. _

She smiled delightedly.  “Very well, Jack. And you may call me Phryne. Although hardly anyone else does.”

And for the first time, she saw a true smile light up his face.  

“So, what was taking you all the way out to Ballarat, anyway?” he inquired.

“I was collecting the Hispano-Suiza myself!” Phryne exclaimed enthusiastically.  “They offered to deliver it to me, but I would have had to wait an extra day, and I couldn’t abide the thought.  Plus, I thought Dot and I both could enjoy the charms of rail travel … that didn’t go quite to plan.”

“Indeed …, so do all the English nobility drive themselves these days?”  Jack asked, digging for explanation a bit.

“Definitely not!  Chauffeurs are still  _ de rigueur _ , but I can’t help thinking that those days won’t continue forever.  Most households in London are eliminating staff, not increasing their numbers for several chauffeurs to drive them all around.  I, personally, just love to drive.”

“Was it some handsome chauffeur who taught you how to drive?”  

_ Is he teasing me? _

“No, I went straight from Collingwood to France…”  Jack’s face suddenly became incredibly still. “We didn’t have any chauffeurs during our time in Collingwood, I guess except for when we went to visit Aunt Prudence.  I was a nurse in the war, and I learned how to drive the ambulance... on the job - you might say - when our driver … became … indisposed.”  

“Hmm,” he said, imagining the sorts of indispositions that befell people during those years.  “Did you meet Dr. MacMillian in your nursing days then?”

“No.  Mac and I go back to grammar school.  She was having a hard time getting into medical school, but they were begging for medics to go to the front.  She didn't want to go alone, and I was pushing her to go anyway.”  She gave a soft rueful snort.  “I thought war was the perfect dramatic excuse that could finally get me away from my father.  How young and stupid we all once were.”

“Yes,” his voice sounded rough.  “No young police constable could pass up a trip to France without losing all self-respect and masculinity.  We lost a lot of good men.”

He gave her a sad smile, and she returned it.  When she spoke again, it was soft and low.

“I know; I saw them.  I wiped their brows, and read to them, and wrote notes to their mothers and sweethearts.  We lost a lot of good women, too:  nurses, medics, even doctors.  People in the wrong place at the wrong time.”  As she spoke, she poured another finger of whisky for Jack and hoped he wouldn’t notice and refuse.  

He continued to drink, looking out into the rain, a faraway look in his eye.  “So you’ve managed to redirect your harrowing ambulance days into a zeal for racecars.  I can’t say that I’ve turned anything even remotely related to the war into a hobby.  I guess ‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.’”  He met her eye again, and seemed to remember himself, flushing slightly at his Shakespearian musings.

“Perhaps,” she said coyly.   _ I can best him on this one. _  “Although I prefer to ‘Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little.’”

His mouth curled into a slight, small smile as he recognized the passage, and then he brought his glass to his lips and just looked at her.  Phryne felt her heartbeat speed up as she held his gaze, and she felt a million things pass between their eyes.

_ Don’t go; I don’t want to go.  I like this; I like you.  You’re intelligent; you’re witty.  You’re kind; you’re brave.  You seem like a friend; you seem like more than a friend.  This is comfortable; this is meaningful.  This is right. _

“I should really go,” his voice was barely a whisper.

“Of course,” she said brightly, breaking the spell and standing to walk with him to the door.  She really needed to remember to keep this strictly professional.  Jack was going to be very useful to her with her new business.

She got to his coat first.  “I think perhaps Mr. Butler’s gone to bed.”  She held his coat out for him, so he could easily slip it on.  He seemed to hesitate for a moment at the gesture, but cooperated nonetheless.  She took a moment to smooth the wrinkles off his shoulders and biceps, not failing to notice the substantial musculature beneath all those layers.

He gave her a small, shy smile as he stood before the door.

“Thank you for the nightcap, Miss Fisher,” he said, donning his hat.  She noticed he was going to be stubborn about her name.

“Come again, Jack,” she said, meaning it.  

While she watched his lean figure walk all the way to his car, she mused on how becoming fedoras really were.  She hoped hats weren’t actually going out of style like all the fashion houses were saying.  Her earlier thoughts of loneliness were completely and utterly forgotten.


	3. Murder at the Green Mill

The silence at the station house was deafening.  With almost everyone at the Fireman and Policeman’s Ball, Jack was left with one solitary junior constable manning the front desk.  They were really not busy; Jack had cleared his desk of almost all paperwork except for two files.  

_ When normal people are all caught up with work, they usually go home. _

But home would be even more quiet than the station tonight, and Jack couldn't face another night of wallowing in whisky and his books.

He turned his attention to the last two files.  How was he going to handle these?  He could feel the irritation rising in his chest, familiar to him whenever he felt the need to bend the rules.  The first contained the compromising photos of Charles Freeman and Bobby Sullivan.  “A jail sentence for loving someone,” she'd said.  Her compassionate insights surprised him, first with Jane, and now with Charles.  She was somehow giddily shallow and penetratingly deep without being a complete contradiction.

_ Damnit _ , he signed.  He had to admit that she was, officially, under his skin.  His thoughts wandered to the Honorable Phryne Fisher more and more these days.  Glancing around his office, he caught sight of her picnic basket in the corner.  He shook his head, remembering her triumphant smile as she, perched on his desk, finally cracked the hard cover he'd labored to keep intact.  Of course she'd be clever enough to realize that all it would take was some good food.  She  _ was _ frightfully clever, actually.  Good thing he'd shown her the evidence, as she was really the one who'd solved this case.  

He thought he had enough pride to be annoyed that she was showing him up, solving his cases, constantly two steps ahead of him.  But he grudgingly admitted that it was too much fun watching her work to be annoyed by her interference.  He thought about her playfulness in the morgue, of all places, miming her contributions after he’d sworn her to silence.

Too much fun, he thought as he closed the first file and opened the second.  He hadn't had this much fun in… well, he honestly couldn't remember.   He actually laughed out loud looking through the various mug shots Hugh had managed to take of her.  Still, he had to contain her.  She couldn't think his department was hers to command.  He had a duty to uphold the law, and a reputation to maintain.

The junior constable appeared at the door, puzzled.  “Is everything alright, sir?”

“Fine,” said Jack.  

_ Do they really think that the sound of me laughing is a cause for concern?  That's pretty pathetic. _

There was one way for Jack to handle the compromising evidence.  It wasn't strictly by the books, but Phryne was right:  who was harmed by what these two men did behind closed doors?  

_ Miss Fisher!  Miss Fisher.  Don't think about her first name. _

Maybe he'd drop by her place tomorrow to have her “handle” this file and his quandary as to what he should do with it.  He looked at the clock:  9:30.  Definitely too late to drop by tonight.  Although… he couldn't imagine she'd be the early-to-bed kind.  Perhaps she was even out, living her opulent life.  He thought of how sheepish he felt when he went over just a few nights ago on the thin excuse of speaking about Jane.  He couldn't do that again so soon.  

_ I could call… _

Yes!  This is official police business anyway.  He’d call and let her know to stop by the station.  That seemed more natural.  Then she could come when convenient… maybe she'd come right away.  Probably not.  

*****

He can’t deny the way his pulse quickened when he heard the rustle of fabric in the front room about a half-hour after his call.

“You summoned me, Inspector Robinson.”  She was a mirage of gold silk and red lips:  a Cleopatra incarnate.

_ Cleopatra.   _ He wasn’t likely to rid himself of that thought for quite some time.  “Yes. We found these plates underneath the floorboards of Leonard Stevens's apartment.” 

“And what do you want me to do with them?”

“Have them incinerated.”  Dear Lord he loved surprising her.  Her pleased smile was worth its weight in … well … gold. 

“I thought your hands were tied.” 

“Yes, but yours are not.”

She strolled out of his office, and his next decision was made too quickly to be at all prudent.  He reached for the last file on his desk, and shoved several of her mug shots in his coat pocket - just a few in case he wanted them later.

“Miss Fisher?”

She peered around the door once again.

“Yes?”

“Here, take these as well.”  

She took the file and surveyed its contents.  “I’m more than happy to save you this paperwork, Inspector.”  She grinned like the Cheshire cat.

“Not out at the Green Mill tonight, with Mr. Stone perhaps?”  Jack immediately regretted tacking on the last phrase.  What should he care who she's currently seeing?

“Ugh, no.  My interest in him was strictly for information-gathering purposes.  He actually gave me the creeps.”  She took a step forward, invading his personal space as was her wont.  “No, but  _ actually _ , I was  _ hoping _ to score an invitation to  _ another _ kind of dance party tonight…”  

Jack stared at her, uncomprehending.

She lowered her voice, fluttered her eyelids, and pouted those red lips.  “Are you going to make me beg?”

Jack licked his lips, staring at hers.  “You mean… the Fireman and Policeman’s Ball?”  he realized.  He took an impatient step back and put his hand on one hip.  “You must be joking..., that’s … that’s for kids.  Besides, Collins and Miss Williams are there, surely you don’t want to embarrass them.”

“That’s precisely why I think we should go.  I think those two poor souls are going to need some boosts in the right direction.”

Jack was sure that gossip of an appearance by him, with a woman, at the annual ball would make its way to Rosie’s ears within the hour.

“Miss Fisher, no.  I’m sorry, there’s no way I can be seen at that ball.  It’s out of the question.”

She paused, considering his earnestness.  He feared she would ask why, but instead she reached down and took his hand, turning her body to head out the door with him in tow.  “What if we could go without being seen?”

*****

“Over here!”  Phryne hissed in a loud whisper.  She was traipsing through the grass, around the back of the dancehall, pointing to a small window only a little above eye level.  Nearby on the ground was a stout partial log left from a fallen tree. 

“Jack, help me roll this over.”  He watched with a smirk as she crouched low to the ground and attempted to heave and roll the log closer to the window.  Her dogged earnestness bordered on the ridiculous, but he found himself rolling his eyes and bending to help her.  Together they positioned the log under the window, and both stepped up.

They both peered through the slightly steamy glass, letting their eyes adjust to the scene within.  All sorts of frivolity and merry-making was underway:  a large brass band, couples dancing, and many tables of drinks and refreshments.  

“Oh my,” said Phryne.  “What an incredible concentration of sturdy-looking young men!”  

Jack again rolled his eyes, “Do you see Collins?  Maybe they’ve already left.  I can’t imagine he’s very suave on the dance floor.”

They were both quiet for a moment, watching the festivities.

“There,” said Phryne, “towards the back.”

Jack squinted in the direction of Phryne’s pointed finger, and then caught a glimpse of Collins’s profile.  Collins and Miss Williams were engaged in a very simple, but quite passable, ballroom style dance.  Collins’s hand was chastely quite high on the lady’s back, but their joined hands were held somewhat close to their bodies, indicating a relaxed ease between them.  They were glued to one spot, spinning in a slow circle.  As Miss Williams’ face came into view, he could see her laughing heartily at something her dance partner had said.

“Well done, Collins…” he mused softly.

“I quite agree… I’m surprised,” said Phryne, turning her face to look at him.  “It doesn’t appear they need our help after all, does it?”

“Indeed not,” said Jack.  Phryne turned back to watch the party, and sighed contentedly, leaning into Jack’s body a bit.  He stiffened. 

“Reminds me of school dances and war benefit parties of so many years ago,” she said.  “Are you sure you don’t want to go in?  They’re so attuned to each other, I doubt they would even notice.”

“I really can’t, Miss Fisher,” said Jack.

_ Don’t ask me, don’t ask why. _

She seemed to understand his silent plea.

She made a move as if to step down, but he felt her slip next to him, her shoe catching on a knot in the wood.  Before he could think, he’d snaked his arm around her waist and held her close to him.  Her hand closest to him reached up and held onto his far shoulder, steadying herself.  She stayed like that, clasped in his arm, and turned slightly into him, letting her far hand cross over to clasp him by the waist as well.

She raised her face to his, and he could feel her breath on his lips.  Batting her eyelashes, she said, “Thank you, Inspector.”

“Don’t mention it,” he responded.  He should let her go, in just a minute, just in one more second.  The moment blessedly seemed to last for an hour.  As he returned her gaze, he felt something suddenly shift in her expression.  The flirtatious artifice seemed to fade, and a seriousness overtook her pretty face.

“But really, thank you, for Charles.  It’s the right thing to do.”  He was silent.  “You’re a good police officer…” she continued.  “You’re a good … man.” 

Their faces were so close, it took every ounce of strength he had to refrain from closing the inches between them and feeling her lips on his.

She held onto him with both hands - one on his back and one on his waist - stood up on her tiptoes, and brushed her lips, softly, lightly, against his cheek.  Then she pulled back, with a questioning look in her eye.

He cleared his throat, untangled himself from her grasp, and stepped down off their perch.  He held a gentlemanly hand out to assist her with her descent.

“Thank you, Miss Fisher,” he said.

He’d be damned if he fell for these tricks.  His department was not hers for the taking, and besides, he was still married…, technically.  He was stronger than this.

She dropped him off at the station, pretending not to notice his silence.  He bid her a polite goodbye and headed for his car.  He could maintain control; he could maintain his professional distance.

_ If only she wasn’t so damned fun… _

_...and beautiful.   _


	4. Death at Victoria Dock

Phryne generally made it a point to be incredibly delighted anytime she encountered most people.  There were exceptions, of course, including Murdoch Foyle and scum of his caliber.  However, most people received her best imitation of a happy woman inwardly squealing with glee to encounter them.  Her mother would have called it being polite, but it was more than polite.  She’d learned that she could usually manipulate people to her fullest potential when they were under the mistaken impression that she was simply bursting to see them.  What she wasn’t accustomed to was truly being delighted to see … well … anyone.  

The prurient part of her twitched in her lower belly when she encountered men she was interested in.  But there could be interest and desire without altering her general facade of unrestrained joy.

Then there was the very subtle shift in her chest and her cheek muscles, when the delight rested on top of an easy, warm, fuzzy feeling of contentment reserved for “her” people.  She didn’t have too many of these types of friends in London, but here, already, she had Mac, Dot, Jane, and Mr. Butler falling into this category.  She imagined Hugh, Cec and Bert might all soon join this circle.  But still, even with her closest friends, even with Mac, even with Jane, she couldn’t resist always acting at least a little bit happier than she really was when saying hello.  

Therefore, it astounded Phryne quite completely, as she later pondered, when a familiar car pulled up to Victoria Dock just as she finished her meeting with Mr. Waddington.  She'd been very surprised to see Jack Robinson’s long, lanky legs swing out of the car and make their way down the dock. Keeping tabs on the waterfront strike seemed like a task unworthy of Melbourne's most astute homicide detective (she’d bet her sailor hat that he was the best of the lot).  But his presence wasn’t what surprised her the most.  The unexpected thing was a sheer thrill, manifesting as a physical feeling, coursing through her veins, picking up her heartbeat, spreading to her smile, and ending in her throat and voice.  She was surprised, and she was delighted, to see him.

“Jack!”

“Miss Fisher.”  He gave her a signature nod of his head, but she saw the corners of his mouth turn up in a pleased grin at her enthusiasm… her genuine enthusiasm.

“What brings you down here this morning?”  

“I’ve come to give Mr. Waddington an update on the case.  Yourka’s murder happened on his property, so he’s been pushing to see resolution.”

“I see,” she said.  He made a slight movement to turn to go, but then she felt the need to reel him back in.  “Are you ever going to take my statement?  I did shoot someone… in cold blood.”

“I thought I took your statement at the scene?”  His face was impassive, but she thought she saw amusement dancing at the corner of his eyes.

“Properly.  Down at the station?”

“Well, Miss Fisher, I don’t think that’s necessary, but if that would ease your guilty conscience, then why don’t you stop by my office when my shift’s over, say eight o’clock?”

“It’s a date,” she said, batting her eyelashes a bit.

Just then, Waddington exited the building to make his way to his men.  Jack intercepted and delivered his news before Waddington stepped through the mass of strikers and began shaking hands.

“You'd almost think someone twisted Waddington's arm, in a … charming way.”  Jack looked at her and smirked.  She needed to be careful; he was getting to know her ways a little bit too well for her liking.

“I've had my fair share of strike action,” he said, gazing at the men.

The surprise continues.  “What? The police strike of '23?” Phryne asked as she watched his typically hard-to-read expression.

“Mmm. Shoulder to shoulder. A lot of good men lost their jobs. I was one of the lucky ones.” 

She turned her shoulders to assess him fully.  “I would've picked you as more of a fence-sitter!” 

“It'd be a tactical error to think you had me pegged just yet, Miss Fisher.”  He turned, ever the gentleman, to open her car door for her.

_ I think he’s actually flirting with me.  _

“I'm very glad to hear it.”

*****

“I’m here for my confession,” she announced loudly upon waltzing into his office at ten minutes after eight.  She had to make him wait a little, after all.  As she slipped her black-and-white embroidered coat down her shoulders (the one she’d worn earlier), she hoped she wasn’t pushing him too far with her choice of dress for the evening:  white with subtle beading, wide-set spaghetti straps, an almost impossibly plunging neckline, an even lower back, a fringed hemline around her knees, and a shapeless sheath that clung closely to her to accentuate the shape underneath.

She was rewarded with widened eyes, a visible gulp, and a quick look back down towards his desk before he collected himself again.  His cool exterior returned fairly quickly, but she’d seen the moment of weakness.  

“What would you like to confess?” he asked as he stood.  He crossed the room and grabbed a whiskey bottle and two shot glasses from the corner cabinet.

_ Those weren’t there before… I wonder if he bought it for me today… I wonder if it’s any good. _

“Inspector!  Drinking on the job…?”  She sat across from him: she liked this chair.

“My shift’s over.  I told you, I’ve already taken your statement.”  He poured them each a drink and handed one off to her, with a twinkle in his eye.  “But I must admit, I am a bit curious about how the bank robbery went down… unofficially.  There are still a few things that don’t quite add up.”

“Such as…?”  The whiskey was actually quite good.

“Whose gun Collins had…”

“Well, unofficially, it was Peter’s.”

“I see - and why did Collins have it?”  Jack asked, honing in.

“Well, he and I were down on the ground and Peter was still standing with his back to the theifs.  Hugh took it out of his holster so Peter could turn around and appear unarmed while Hugh kept it on the floor.”

“Brilliant… and this was Hugh’s idea?”

“Well, yes …, in a way…”

“I see.”  She didn’t think she was fooling him.  He took a drink.

“But really, Jack, he started out a bit shaky when we first entered the encounter, but he really found his grit by the end.  I was very impressed with his handling of the situation.”

“Mmmm, so well handled that a civilian ended up shooting the suspect.”  Jack put his drink down and reached up to fold his hands behind his neck.  She couldn’t help noticing how broad his shoulders must be under all those clothes.  She had been thinking frequently of the sight of him the other day, leaning against her parlour wall as she unrolled her bloody stockings and withstood his scolding.  She hoped she hadn’t given herself away, but seeing him stretched across the room like that had made her panties just as wet as those stockings.  She’d tried to gauge if he was watching how slowly she was rolling them down, but with him… she could just never tell.  

She had sworn to keep him as a professional police contact…, but perhaps a small dalliance wouldn’t be so bad.  Not if she handled it appropriately… she was up to the challenge.  With all his late nights and their shared cocktails, there’s no way he was married.  Or if he was, he certainly wasn’t happy about it.

_ I can’t believe I haven’t figured that out yet.  I’m losing my touch. _

She gambled and stood, rounding the desk and perching on top, next to him.  “I know you’re irritated with my… influence on Hugh, but I’m just helping him reach his potential.  You’ve done such a good job with him so far, but I think what he needs is a bit of a woman’s touch… help with his intuition, if you will.”  His eyes kept fluttering to her body, then back his drink, body, drink.

“No doubt you’ve come to that conclusion from your years of police training,” he scoffed.

“Now Jack, training is no match for talent.”

“I do wish you’d… be more careful with all these ne’er-do-wells you seem to run into in these investigations.  That shooting outside your house was a close call.”

“Don’t worry, I always have you to carry me to my rescue, just like you did with poor Lila.”

“Mmm.  Was your reveal to her brother as satisfying as I hope it was?”

“Very.  I’m not sure what will happen to Mrs. Waddington now, but definitely not a police matter.”

“For once,” he said, looking sideways at her with a sly smile.

“How  _ did  _ you manage not to get fired in that strike?  I thought everyone was chopped!”  Phryne suddenly asked, changing the subject.

He shrugged, picking up his drink again.

“You must have had a good friend in a very senior position…?”

“Possibly.”  His poker face was impressive.  So impressive that she knew there was something he wasn’t saying.

“Hmm.”  She narrowed her eyes at him.

“So how’s Jane?” he asked, his turn to change the subject.

“Wonderful,” she said.  “She’s giving those snotty blockheads at that fancy school a run for their money.”

“She’s learning from you quickly,” he responded, eyebrows raised.  “And our young Romeo and Juliet?”

“I believe all is well, but you know, she’s Catholic and he’s Protestant.”

“As bad as being a Montague and a Capulet,” said Jack.

“And with those two, I think that might end up actually mattering.  Poor fools.”

“Well, I wouldn’t discount him just yet.  Collins is a rule-following, but he’s also smart and logical.  And something tells me he’s going to be quite the gallant romantic.  I can’t see him breaking her heart over religion.”

Sensing the perfect segue, she subtly swung a little so that her bare leg just grazed the detective’s knee.  He didn’t move away.

“And what would you know about being the gallant romantic?”

He turned his face to stare into her eyes for 2, no maybe 5 seconds longer than was comfortable.  The sudden silence made her hair stand on end and created a shallow feeling in her chest that quickly traveled down to her belly.

He reached over and put his large muscled hand under the back of her closest knee, pulling her leg slightly closer to him, and turning his body so that her leg was in between his.

She gasped at the sensation of skin on skin, and at the delicious way his movement had spread her legs for him.  The fringe of her dress was the only thing dropping between her thighs to hide from him a view of her panties.  She felt herself become instantly wet, and her breathing picked up noticeably.

He brought his other hand up to brush the fringe away from the bandage.  His touch was confident and commanding, but so gentle.  The fingers at the back of her knee lightly massaged the sensitive skin there, sending a shooting sensation straight up her thigh to her core.  He pulled the bandage back to assess her wound.

“As I said,” his eyes were positively pierced into hers for a few beats.  He then lifted her leg a few inches, and bent his head to place a soft, lingering kiss on the smooth skin just adjacent to the nasty red scratch.  “It’d be a mistake to think you have me pegged.”

“Jack,” she positively moaned, “come home with me.”  Her voice was desperate and urgent.  A small dalliance wouldn’t be all that bad, right?

He cleared his voice, released her leg, and stood up, drowning his drink.  “As much as I would like to, I can’t.”

And just like that, her surprise and delight came to a crashing halt.

She threw her drink back to cover her fluster and confusion.

“Thank you for the drink,” she said, trying to put back her professional composure and delighted facade.

He nodded subtly and gave her a serious look.  “You’re welcome anytime.  I mean that.”

She gave a confused sideways nod, furrowing her brow, as she quickly made her way out of the office.  She’d never received so many mixed signals in such a short period of time.  

No matter, she thought as she walked to her car.  She was Phryne Fisher, and she could bed any man she wanted.

Almost any man.


	5. Raisins and Almonds

The welcome sound of her heels rang through the empty office.

“Jack?”

“Still here,” he said in a ragged voice, grateful for the interruption in his present task.  He watched out of the corner of his eye as she dropped her purse on his desk, grabbed his whiskey and tumblers, and collapsed into his chair.  She looked … tired … but still pristine.  How in the blazes she managed not to get blood on her white outfit?

“Poor Miss Lee. Saul was lost to her from the moment they met.” 

“I've been contemplating what to write to his wife.”  She glanced at him, and the look spoke volumes.  She had no helpful hints for this situation; she was at a loss. 

“Five years and half a world apart. What kind of a marriage can survive that?”

_ Marriage.  I am still married.   _ Jack had been reminding himself of this fact more and more frequently lately.  He reminded himself when he stood next to her over Saul Michael’s body; when she teased him by withholding the teacup handle; when she sat on his desk in purple velvet discussing poison; when he matched his wits with hers to discover the invisible ink; when she woke him up (interrupting a most scintillating dream of her) by putting her hands on his thighs after Dr. MacMillian successfully created rubber; when she hiked up her skirt and pulled that blasted dagger right out of her garter (he would certainly be reliving that moment in future dreams); and when he scolded her for playing fast and loose with an unloaded gun.  He had tried to tell her, indirectly, in his damned too-subtle way that only he understood, when he told her Saul couldn’t possibly have a lover since he was married.  Her response, “it happens,” had been playing itself through his mind the past several days.  Did she mean … just Saul and Miss Lee … or could she have also meant him … them.

_ Don’t be a fool. _

He closed his eyes; he had to tell her.  “I went to war a newlywed.” 

“But you came home.” She looked as if that explained everything, but he wanted to get the whole thing out. 

“Not the man my wife married... 16 years ago.”

“War will do that to you.”  He liked telling her things, because she seemed neither surprised, nor nosy, nor indifferent.  She just took it in, with an understanding look, and let him continue or not, as he wished.  He pressed on.

“My wife's been living with her sister for some time now. But a marriage is still a marriage, Miss Fisher.“

_ There.  Well, at least now she can stop coming around and torturing me if she’s disappointed. _

She raised her glass, looking at him without judgment, with respect.  “Especially to a man of honour.”

They both drank their glasses in one gulp, and she poured them another in silence.  God, this was nice.  Someone to drink with at the end of cases.  He hadn’t had that since … well, probably since before the strike.  Everyone knew how he’d been the only one to strike, have his job reinstated, and receive a promotion to one of the newly vacant positions above his former title.  Everyone knew it was because he was George Sanderson’s son-in-law, and that was the day he lost most of his friends on the force.  His peers were either fired, or resentful, and there was no way for him to fix the damage.  He hadn’t wanted the promotion; he’d begged George just to let him resume work at his former position.  But too many slots were unfilled, and George said he couldn’t rely on anyone else to keep up pace and handle the really difficult cases.  So he did his duty, and lost his friends.  The new kids like Hugh didn’t know all of this of course, but it wasn’t really the same knocking one back with lads almost 20 years younger than him.

He raised his glass this time, attempting to lighten the mood. “To honorable friendships with The Honourable of Melbourne,” he said, with small grin, and a special emphasis on her title.  

She gave him a sly smile.  “It’s just a meaningless title,” she purred, “don’t read too much into it.”  She peeled off her fur-trimmed coat and hat, “Inspector, how do you not boil alive in here?”

“Alright,” he acquiesced, “well, I do need your finishing school influence to get this letter out.  Now, how does this sound?”  He raised his eyes to the ceiling and delivered his best deadpan. “‘Dear Mrs. Michaels, The bad news is, Saul’s dead.  The good news is he didn’t die alone, because he was with an exquisite woman at the time, who he was also, in fact, shagging.’”

Phryne almost spit out her whiskey.

“Too direct?”

Her laugh ricocheted off the cold, hard station walls, and he upended his second shot of whiskey.  The whiskey coated his throat, but the sound of this woman’s laughter - and knowing he caused it - was the real source of warmth in his chest.

She poured a third shot, giggling.

“‘Dear Mrs. Michaels,’” she said, grinning wickedly, “‘Your husband’s lover let him die, saving you the trouble.  Mazel tov!’”

They raised the third shot.  “L'chaim!” she exclaimed.  They both gulped it down.  This pace was getting very dangerous.  

“‘Dear Mrs. Michaels,’” he smirked, “Your husband’s raisins were found mixed with another woman’s almonds.”

She shrieked uproariously, pouring a fourth.  

“‘Dear Mrs. Michaels,’” she said, slurring slightly as she handed his glass to him yet again. “‘Turns out, your husband’s holy land was actually between another woman’s thighs.’”

He chuckled, and they both drank again.

“‘Dearest Mrs. Michaels,’”  he stopped, staring at her gorgeous face, lit up with humor and anticipation.  “Uhhhh, I forgot, completely.”

They both laughed.  She took his glass again to pour a fifth, by this time, there was a sizeable whiskey puddle on her side of the desk.  He found he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Have you washed these glasses since the last time I was here?” she mocked.

“Miss Fisher, I’m offended.”  He tried his best to look hurt.  “Of course I’ve washed them.”

They both drank.

“Whiskey kills all germs,” he zinged.  She giggled, with a little bit of a snort, reaching up to pinch her nose to stem the whiskey from coming back out.

“Well, what do you say, Inspector,” she challenged shaky the bottle, “there are only a few swallows left.”

“By all means,” he said, “let’s swallow them.  Ladies first,” he said gesturing to the bottle.  She tipped it up to her lips and drank, her white porcelain throat shuddering with the motion.  Jack stood up and rounded the desk, taking his handkerchief out of his pocket, and leaning over to mop up the spilt whiskey.  (Ok, maybe he did still care, even three sheets to the wind.)  She handed him one final swig at the bottom of the bottle, and he sat on his desk in front of her and downed it, tasting the waxy remnants of her lipstick even over the strong burn of the drink.

“Well, thank you,” he said, “I’m glad we’ve worked out what to write.”

She giggled again, “It was my pleasure, Inspector.”

She then stood up, staring at his mouth, and removed one of her white gloves.  “You’ve just got … a little …” and she used her thumb to very slowly, very gently wipe her lipstick off the center of his bottom lip.  The motion pulled his lip down so that he could feel her smooth finger on the inside of his mouth.

It was too much - she had pushed him too far.  He stood from his perch on the desk, grabbed her upper arms, and pulled her body close to his.  She gasped in surprise.  He held his lips an inch away from hers and looked into her eyes questioningly.  She closed her eyes, sighed, and leaned into him.  He closed the gap and pressed his mouth against hers, tasting the whiskey, and the wax, and also tasting her.  

Her arms reached up to hold his waist, and he moved to spread his hands across her back.  She moaned slightly, opening to slide his tongue along her lips, gaining entry to her hot, delicious mouth.  

She broke away, and he realized both were breathing heavily.  “Inspector,” she gasped. “You’re married.”

He flexed his jaw muscle and smirked, “What was it that you said?  ‘It happens.’”

She pursed her lips, pulled him down by the lapels, and placed a soft, lingering kiss on his forehead.  “I can’t take advantage of my man of honour after pouring that much whiskey down your throat.  The next time you kiss me, I’d like you to be sober.”

She picked up her coat, and he took it from her to dutifully hold it while she slipped her arms inside.  He could only imagine how sadly he must have looked at her as she went.  She gathered the rest of her things, and turned to look at him before she left his office.  

"Jack," she whispered, a plea?  But he could think of nothing to say, nothing to stop her from going.

He watched her leave, then sat back down to lay his head on the desk.  The room was spinning, and so was his life… spinning out of control.


End file.
